


Winter, o winter!

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing Clothes, Winter Wonderland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25810234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: The first snowflake of the year fell over London, and at that moment, all was right in the world.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 160





	Winter, o winter!

**Author's Note:**

> For [Marilyn](https://twitter.com/GangCane), because she wanted some winter themed jonmartin. Which is hilarious, considering this was the hottest weekend in the UK this year and I am cooking inside my flat lmao
> 
> Inspired in part by [this fanart](https://twitter.com/GangCane/status/1286855120542552065) (also by Marilyn, not a coincidence) although my fic is set on the blessedly nicer times of S1, some time after Jane Prentiss traumatizes our poor boy Martin but way before the season finale.
> 
> Not beta'd, so pls forgive any mistakes I might've made
> 
> enjoy <3

A light snow fell over London, and Jon watched warily from the lobby window.

It was cold, sure, but the weather forecast hadn’t said anything about _snow_. It caught everyone completely by surprise, and he looked out with a frown as a single snowflake drifted down and landed on the windowsill.

“Oh!” Someone exclaimed behind him, voice high-pitched and delighted. “Snow! That’s unexpected, isn’t it?”

When he looked back there was Martin, smiling goofily and looking out the same window as Jon with wide eyes, seemingly fascinated, almost as if this was the first snow day he’d ever seen where Jon knew for a fact it wasn’t.

“Why are you so excited? This is basically just _rain_ , only much colder. We’ll all be a shivering mess by the time we get to the tube.”

Martin shrugged, still grinning, but offered no further retort. Tim, however, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and gave Jon a pointed look.

“Come now, Jon. You have to admit London has a bit of a fairy tale look to it when it snows. Even your cold, _cold_ heart can see that.”

Jon huffed and looked out the window again. The snow was starting to pick up. He frowned.

“Maybe,” he muttered sourly, and Sasha came to him and looped an arm around his.

“That’s the spirit! Now, come on, cheer up. It’s not every day we manage to convince you to join us for Friday beers, and I refuse to let the snow ruin this for us.”

The four of them left the Institute as one, saying their goodbyes to Rosie and nearly dragging Jon with them, as they usually had to whenever they “convinced” their boss to leave on time. Jon’s breath fogged up as soon as they stepped outside, and all around people were hurrying to wherever it was they were going to try and escape the snow that was slowly but surely piling up on the sidewalk.

Jon shivered and buttoned his overcoat up to the last button, lifting the sides of the coat’s collar and glaring at the snowflakes that softly floated down and rested on the black wool before melting and vanishing in between the fibres. The turtleneck he wore underneath it might've been enough for the early morning chill, but it was definitely not adequate for the afternoon snow, and he cursed the weather forecast for giving him a false sense of security.

Distracted as he was, trying to give himself the impression of warmth without outright cuddling against Sasha—which would be _highly_ unprofessional and just the thought made him recoil in discomfort—he jumped when a foreign object touched against his nape, then was quickly but carefully wrapped snugly around his neck and draped over his shoulders.

A scarf.

Martin appeared on his peripheral vision and smiled, a thing almost as soft and warm as Jon reckoned the scarf was, which he felt was fitting.

“You looked cold,” he said in lieu of an explanation, shrugging noncommittally, but as Jon opened his mouth to retort, perhaps even argue against the kind gesture, insist it was very much not needed albeit appreciated, Tim walked past them, pulling Martin ahead with him and leaving Jon gaping like a fish.

Sasha nudged Jon in the ribs, snapping him out of his stunned staring, and grinned.

“Not a word,” he muttered, cheeks flushing, shoving his hands in his pockets and burrowing deeper behind Martin’s scarf, and Sasha put her gloved hands up in surrender.

“My mouth is a grave.”

The pub was, understandably, full to the brim, the outside area closed due to the weather and the inside consequently packed with people, and Jon had a swift and sharp reminder of why he rarely ever accompanied his team to the pub after work hours; it was not because he disliked their company or because he was addicted to his job, as they would sometimes jokingly suggest, but rather because the pub they preferred going to was small ( _cosy_ , Tim would argue), the music was loud ( _lively_ , Sasha would retort), and as a result of these two things mashed together the pub patrons had to speak even louder in order to be heard amongst each other, which meant sore throats and becoming intimately acquainted with a coworker’s beer breath. Jon frowned as someone squeezed past him to have a smoke outside, the loud music already making him feel overwhelmed, but he tampered it all down, reminding himself he was making an effort to have a good time tonight. 

Sasha and Tim stopped at the bar to order their first round as Martin and Jon were put in charge of finding them a table, which turned out to be a hidden booth at the back of the pub, awfully close to the doors that led to the gardens outside. The music wasn’t as loud there and people wouldn’t be walking past them to get anywhere, so Jon deemed it acceptable with a solemn nod, making Martin smile. They both took off their coats and sat down next to each other, their coats piled and draped over the seat between them, and Jon sighed and unwrapped the scarf from his neck, carefully folding it neatly onto his lap, fingers smoothing over the wool and tracing the patterns on the fabric.

When he looked up Martin had stopped folding his shirt sleeves up and was watching him intently.

“What?” Jon asked, frowning, and Martin seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was, shaking his head and laughing awkwardly.

“N-nothing! Sorry, didn’t mean to stare.”

Which was when Tim decided to make his entrance with a jug of steaming mulled wine, Sasha behind him with four mugs in her hands, both of them beaming with joy.

And the evening ended up being, well... _nice_. Jon would maybe even admit as much if pressed. More than once he thought about how, at this time, he’d normally be staring at old files in the Institute, then he’d shiver miserably as he walked all the way back to his flat before going to bed. Alone. As always. And instead he was hanging out with his coworkers, his _friends_ , laughing and snacking on crisps in between sips of a deliciously sweet and warm drink. He begrudgingly admitted to himself he was having a good time, and he was glad he came. Tim, as the self-appointed life of any party they went to, told some horrifying stories about his years in university, which had everyone cackling with laughter, and that’s when Jon piped in with a few gold tales from his time at Oxford, the mulled wine warming him up and making him softer, more susceptible to participating. Everyone stopped to listen to him, eyes wide in genuine delight, and Jon’s fingers idly stroked the soft fibres of Martin’s scarf throughout the night.

Several hours and three jars of mulled wine later, the four of them stepped outside, Tim jokingly trying to push a laughing Martin back inside as he whined about how _bollocks-freezing cold_ it was out there and how toasty warm their booth must still be. Sasha and Jon chuckled as they quickly donned their coats, gloves and scarves back on before the snow could penetrate their clothes and leave them truly shivering. Jon had just wrapped Martin’s scarf around his neck when he realized what he was doing.

“Ah, Martin, apologies, you must be wanting this back,” he said, handing it over, but Martin shook his head, stepped close to Jon, and wrapped the scarf back around his neck, twisting the front into a complicated knot that Jon couldn’t replicate if his life depended on it.

“Keep it,” Martin whispered, and his cheeks were flushed and his smile was so, _so_ gentle Jon felt something warm bloom inside his chest, and he was fairly sure it had nothing to do with the alcohol still in his system. “You need it more than I do. You can bring it back to me on Monday, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” Jon nodded, hands coming up to touch the scarf, almost as if making sure it was actually there and he wasn’t having some sort of fever dream.

And the four of them walked to the tube, Tim and Sasha hugging and laughing at random inside jokes, cheeks squished together as they hobbled drunkenly down the street, Martin and Jon following them in a comfortable silence, side by side, arms touching and eyes upwards, watching the snowflakes drift down and cover London in a thin layer of ice and a whimsical atmosphere.

Jon closed his eyes, burrowing down until his chin and mouth were hidden behind the scarf, inhaling deeply as he smelled a scent so overwhelmingly _Martin_ , lovingly comforting and familiar, it made him dizzy with a feeling he didn’t yet fully understand. He allowed the crisp cold air to fill his nostrils, listened to the chimes of Big Ben with an almost detached tranquillity, and years later, after his life inevitably and irrevocably changes forever, he fondly remembers this evening as one of the nicest nights of his life.

The cold night when snowflakes unexpectedly drifted down over London, and all was right in the world.


End file.
